Page 53 of Death at the Deep Dive

“I…couldn’t speak to that.”

Franklin paused for another sip, then said, “Did Vera Shandy really tell you to talk to my mother?”

“She really did, yes. She said your mother worked at the Deep Dive for a long time and knew everybody. Even if your mother doesn’t remember much, she still might have insights into—”

Franklin cut in. “I can’t have you getting my mother all worked up, but if you were serious about wanting to interviewme, I’d be happy to meet with you. I do remember quite a bit from those days.”

“Do you? How old were you?”

“When?”

Ellery rephrased his original thought. “When your mother worked at the original Deep Dive.”

“I’d have been around eight. But it was different in those days. The pub, I mean, but also liquor laws. I could sit in the backroom and read or play or simply listen to the adults talk, and no one paid me any attention. I think half the time no one even knew I was there. Some of the other servers’ kids did as well. Childcare wasn’t a thing back then.”

Really?

Franklin added, “To be honest, I probably remember much more about that time than my mother.”

“That would be great,” Ellery said automatically, although he had his doubts.

“I think it could be very useful.” Maybe it was the sarsaparilla talking, but Franklin sounded more relaxed, almost cordial. “When would you like to get together?”

“Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”

“No. I’m sorry. I work as a travel agent in Newport. What about tomorrow evening?”

In theory, the Silver Sleuths were holding their emergency meeting tomorrow night, but after that afternoon’s emergency meeting, Ellery thought perhaps he would pass and get the official minutes from Nora.

Nora and Kingston, because he now realized Nora, for whatever reason, was going to curate information for him.

Franklin was saying, “In fact, we could meet at the Deep Dive, if you like.”

“Sure,” Ellery said. “I’ve never been.”

Franklin tittered. “No? Well, you’re in for an experience. Shall we meet around nine? That’s when things start to get interesting.”

“Monday at nine.”

“At the Deep Dive,” Franklin said.

“At the Deep Dive,” Ellery agreed.

Chapter Fifteen

Sunday Night

Today someone tried to kill me.

Ellery, lying in the miniature galleon of his bed, jumped at the sound of the maple tree outside his window, scratching against the glass. Watson, curled between his feet, slumbered peacefully on.

He glanced at the date written at the top of the page in Great-great-great-aunt Eudora’s machine-precise script. In the later years of her life, her handwriting had grown as erratic as some of her behaviors, but in her thirties, Eudora’s penmanship had been a thing of beauty.

This journal had been written in autumn 1964. Ellery had been unable to locate a journal for 1963. It seemed suspicious. The journals for ’61, ’62, ’65, and ’66 had all been found in order in the box he had dragged up from the basement.

Only 1963 appeared to be missing.

Because it contained incriminating evidence?

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